


Your Hand In Mine

by MadeOfStardustAndOreos



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Book 7: Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Hogwarts Express, Holding Hands, Mr. and Mrs. Granger - Freeform, missing moment
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-15
Updated: 2020-07-16
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:49:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25275709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadeOfStardustAndOreos/pseuds/MadeOfStardustAndOreos
Summary: Immediately following Dumbledore's funeral, Ron, Hermione and Harry leave Hogwarts for the last time. Hermione's already making plans for protecting her parents — plans that Ron has every intention of being a part of.A missing moment between Half-blood Prince and Deathly Hallows. The first in a collection of missing moments from Deathly Hallows that follow Ron and Hermione's winding, complicated transition from best friends to something more.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley
Kudos: 26





	1. Hermione's Plan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have always, always wanted to write a collection of missing moments for Ron and Hermione. This is never where I imagined beginning, but I hope you enjoy this tiny look into my imagination :)

“I don’t know how he can sleep on a train,” Ron says, frowning at Harry on the seat across from them. He’s got his head tipped back against the wall, mouth hanging open with drool, glasses crooked and hair all askew. It doesn’t look comfortable, but Ron is just glad Harry’s finding sleep at all. The nightmares never stopped with him, and they hadn’t gotten any better since Dumbledore’s death. 

Hermione looks up from her book, a dark, dusty thing that belongs in Borgin and Burkes. “At least he’s sleeping,” she says, mirroring his thoughts. He’s sitting sideways on the bench, one leg bent and the other stretched out on the floor. Hermione’s in her preferred reading position, legs tucked underneath her. For their last journey on the Hogwarts express, it feels simultaneously appropriate and devastating that they’re not closer. Or speaking much, really. 

Only a few hours ago, Harry turned their whole world on its head again. He revealed his plan, which involved some horrible journey for horcruxes, but more importantly, not returning to Hogwarts. Ron was surprised for all of two seconds and then he was wondering just how stupid Harry was to think he could do all that on his own. He wouldn’t last two minutes without Hermione. And Ron… well, Ron was the sidekick. Where Harry went, Ron went. 

Hermione already knew of course, as she knew everything. He wishes she’d told him, but forgiving Hermione was all too easy these days. 

His thoughts flit between Dumbledore and plans for the future, Hermione in a dress for the wedding, and how he’d ever get out of going to Hogwarts, when Hermione breaks their silence. 

“I have a plan,” she says quietly. Vaguely he realizes she hasn’t turned a page in a while. 

“For… horcruxes?” He whispers the last part, even though they’re the only ones in their compartment. 

“No,” she says simply. “My parents.” 

Her parents. Ron isn’t expecting that. He gives himself a moment to work out what she’s saying, but the answer doesn’t come. “Your parents?”

“I need a way to protect them, while we’re gone. So if they’re… attacked, they won’t have any information on me.” 

Ron nods. “Right. They can stay at the Burrow, if you want. They’ll be as safe there as they are anywhere and—”

“No, Ron. If there’s even a  _ chance _ …” She trails off, and he recognizes the beginning signs of tears. “I have to obliviate them.” 

This is perhaps more shocking than anything Harry has told him in the last twenty four hours. Obliviation isn’t a spell that’s used lightly, meant for muggles and trauma victims. And it certainly isn’t meant for Hermione’s parents. 

“Are you barking?” It’s out before he can realize it was the wrong thing to say. Hermione instantly devolves into tears. “I mean—are you sure about this? There’s got to be another way.” 

Harry starts to snore loudly, but they ignore him. 

“I’ve racked my brain, Ron, and gone through every Muggle protection book I can find—there’s not a lot—and none of them cover anything like what we’re about to go through. I mean… it’ll be months, maybe even years before we find anything. And if the Death Eaters get one whiff of what we’re searching for—that’s it. We’re done for.”

And the rest of the wizarding world would be done for too. 

It hasn’t quite hit him yet that they’re basically the world’s last hope for defeating Voldemort. They’re the only ones who know his secret now. A secret that already managed to kill R.A.B.  _ and  _ Dumbledore. For a moment, his mind spins a wild scenario where Hermione and Harry are gone and the deed is left up to him. He shuts the thought down immediately. No amount of heroics will ever make up for losing his best friends. 

He forces his mind back into the train and scoots closer to Hermione, pulling her to him. She falls easily into his chest, tears wetting his t-shirt. It’s easy now, cradling her in his arms, and he wonders how he never thought to do it before. Of course, he was also in complete denial of his feelings before. 

She starts to sniffle and continues. “I can’t be the reason they get hurt. If they don’t know who I am and they’re far away from this mess, they might be safe.” He feels her shiver in his arms. “And they won’t know they’re missing a daughter if I… if anything happens to me.” 

Ron can’t help squeezing her tighter then. The thought of Hermione, hurt, gone,  _ dead  _ is too horrible to stomach so he doesn’t. “Over my dead body,” he mutters angrily. 

“Don’t joke, Ronald,” she says, pulling away to look him in the eyes. 

“I’m not joking.” He puts as much sincerity into his gaze as he can. “I won’t let anything happen to you. Or Harry.” 

She pauses, tears frozen in her big brown eyes. With Hermione practically in his lap, Ron feels his ears start to go red. They’ve reached this moment before, stuck between a familiar friendship and the realm beyond, where it’s more about Ron and Hermione than Ron, Hermione, and bloody Harry Potter. 

The lad in question snores noisily, breaking up their heartfelt embrace. 

Hermione sniffs and draws away. 

“Obliviation is the only thing I can think of that might work,” she says, bringing them back to the conversation at hand. 

Ron considers her. He’s never doubted Hermione to have the right answer, but even this one seems out there for her. He wants to offer up solutions, but each one seems more dangerous than the last. Staying with his parents will work until the ministry raids the Burrow. The order members can’t protect them if they’re too busy protecting the rest of the world, and Hogwarts won’t be safe for anyone, least of all a pair of muggles. 

“If you’re sure it’s the only way…”

“It is.” 

“Alright then. I’ll help—they’re gonna need new identities. And a new place to live, hopefully as far away as possible from the Death Eaters—”

She cuts him off. “You don’t have to help me, Ron. I can do this on my own.” 

“But you don’t have to.” It’s easy then, to rest his hand on hers. She twists her own, so their palms are together and they’re holding hands. Hers are as delicate as he expected, soft from turning the pages of so many books. He wonders what memories she feels on his. 

“I should meet them,” he says suddenly. “So you’re not the only one who has to carry their… their memory.” He hopes it doesn’t sound like they’re already gone. 

“You’ve met them before!”

“No, I mean—properly. Like we’re—”

He doesn’t dare finish that sentence. 

Like they were what? Dating? Boyfriend and girlfriend? It couldn’t be further from the truth, and yet Ron can’t help but hope that she hears the unspoken ending anyway. 

“Alright. But you can’t come through the fireplace.”

He laughs at that, remembering the scandal of arriving at Harry’s for the Quidditch World Cup. The poor bloke would be going back there today, if for the last time. At the end of every year, he feels that familiar anxiety for his friend return. He was so tiny his first year, clearly underfed, unloved. Bars on his window second year, running away his third year, Ron couldn’t imagine what other horrors Harry came home to. If he could call it that. 

“And you can’t tell Harry,” Hermione says, again reading his thoughts. “He’ll throw a fit about doing this on his own and then do something stupid and self-sacrificing.” 

“I thought you liked stupid and self-sacrificing.” 

“No, I’d prefer brave and noble over stupid.” And their banter returns, as comfortable as ever. Ron wonders if she really means that. If she really believes him to be brave and noble, more than just the loyal friend. 

Harry wakes up, choking violently on his own drool. Ron gets up to pat him on the back, his hand slipping away from Hermione’s. It’s unconscious, really, the way they separate that part of themselves from Harry and all his problems. 

“Thanks mate,” Harry says, swallowing heavily. He adjusts his glasses and blinks out at the window. “What were you guys talking about?” 

“Oh, the usual. Horcuxes, taking down Dark Lords, whether or not Bill will have werebabies.” The answer comes easily and then they’re all laughing. He glances at Hermione, pleased to see a smile for the first time in days. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed! Up next: Dinner with the Grangers!


	2. Dinner With the Grangers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Before their not-coupley-at-all dinner with Hermione's parents, Ron is struggling with what to wear and Hermione is struggling with the insanity of it all. Will the night end in disaster? Will Ron figure out dress shirts? Read on to find out!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey ya'll it's 2 am but I wanted to finish this so I hope it's not trashy!!!!!! e n j o y

_ It’s not a date _ , Hermione reminds herself for perhaps the fifteenth time that day. Ron is due over in an hour or so to have dinner with her parents. Properly meet them, before they’ve no idea who Ron Weasley is, or that they have a daughter. But here she is, holding up dresses in front of a mirror, pretending that this is a completely normal dinner. 

“Shouldn’t you be getting ready?” Her mum said a few minutes ago. Hermione was setting the table—she was hopeless in the kitchen—and had been planning on wearing what she’d been wearing all day. What followed was a hopeless argument with her mum about looking nice. After all, Hermione was bringing a boy over, and no amount of convincing would make her mother believe that there was nothing special about tonight. 

So Hermione set off upstairs to find something nicer. But what do you wear to a dinner with your parents and the boy you’ve been fancying for years? The boy who isn’t a boyfriend, and is also helping you get ready to erase said parents memories? 

Dinner with Ron became sort of the perfect distraction. Her mother obsesses about things just as much as her daughter does and it left her no room to wonder at why Hermione’s room is so tidy and why she’s doing an absurd amount of laundry. 

And if Hermione doesn’t always correct her mum when she calls Ron a  _ special boy friend _ , it can’t hurt, right? It isn’t as if they’ll remember this anyway. 

Hermione sighs in exasperation. There are so many things she wants to get right about tonight and until five minutes ago, her clothes weren’t one of them. 

There’s a loud crack and then Ron is in her bedroom with a large pile of fabric in his arms. 

Hermione yelps in surprise and nearly tumbles into her bookshelf. “Ron! What are you doing here?” 

He at least has the decency to look sheepish before he’s dumping the fabric—clothes, she realizes—onto her bed. “Sorry, ‘Mione, I just couldn’t figure out what to wear to a muggle dinner, let alone one with your parents right before we—” He pauses and finally looks around to check they’re alone. “Blimey, is this your bedroom?” 

He looks overly large in it. Too tall and very bright in his orange Chudley Cannons shirt. Hermione immediately feels self-conscious. He’s intruded on a part of her life before she ever knew she was a witch. A life that still included diaries and snowglobes and spelling bee ribbons. 

“This bookshelf is too small,” he says, walking over to examine it. “I always imagined your room being basically a library, with a tiny bed in the corner.”

“Ron,” she tries again. “You can’t—”  
“Oh, right!” And then he’s hugging her, even though it’s only been a couple weeks and they’ve exchanged too many letters since then. “It’s good to see you, Hermione.” Smashed against his broad chest, she feels some of her insecurities fall away and remembers this is _Ron_. He smells like the Burrow, and she already knows his ears will be red when they pull away. 

“I’m glad you’re here, Ron, but—”

“Hermione dear, is everything alright in there?” Her mother’s voice floats up from downstairs. They’ve separated, so Hermoine has room to smack Ron in the chest when he starts to laugh. 

“Yes, Mum! Knocked over a pile of books, that’s all.” 

“Alright, dear. Make sure you find something nice to wear! Didn’t you say Ron likes orange?” 

This time, Ron doubles over with laughter and Hermione wordlessly casts  _ Muffliato  _ before her mother can hear. She can feel her cheeks have gone blazing red, and Ron’s laughter hasn’t let up. She finds the closest book and smacks him with it, which thankfully shuts him up. 

Then he’s grinning at her and Hermione can barely hold onto her anger. 

“It’s good to see you too, Ron, but I thought you weren’t arriving until seven.” 

“Yeah, sorry about that. I seriously don’t know what to wear though.” He steps back to her bed—Hermione’s already wishing she’d thought to make it this morning, just in case—and rifles through the shirts and pants he brought. “Mum lent me some of Bill’s old clothes, but I’ve never been to a muggle dinner and, well… I don’t want to look like an idiot.” 

Hermione stifles a giggle and joins him. There’s an array of t-shirts, jumpers, dress shirts, trousers and even khaki shorts. Ron shoves his hair off his forehead, already looking flustered. 

“Well, we can get rid of these,” she says, moving some of the jumpers and trashier t-shirts to the side. “Mum thinks I’m wearing a dress so you should probably look the part as well.” 

“A dress?” he says, eyes wide in alarm. 

“Don’t worry, Ron. It’s not like the yule ball.” She casts away the lingering resentment from that fight of theirs, hoping Ron will do the same. From the bottom of the pile, she pulls out a stack of dressier shirts and sets aside a nicer pair of trousers. 

“You looked amazing that day,” he says quietly. Hermione freezes, hands wrapped around a green button-down. “I always meant to tell you that.”

“Er, thank you, Ron,” she manages to get out and then they’re both flustered, red faces, fumbling hands. “Right. Um—how about this one?”

It’s a blue button-down that matches his eyes. He agrees quickly and strips off his t-shirt. 

“Ron!” Hermione squeaks, turning around quickly. “Go in the closet or something!” 

“Sorry! Sorry,” she hears, and then a clamor as he grabs the rest of his outfit. The closet door clicks shut and Hermione finally has a chance to breathe. 

She’s beginning to think this was a horrible idea. When Ron suggested meeting her parents, she forgot for a moment that he didn’t mean in a boyfriend-girlfriend sort of way. They’d never explicitly expressed those feelings for each other, but Hermione was nearly positive Ron felt the same. 

At least, that’s what she had thought before the whole Lavender debacle. 

They’d even planned a date, even if it was only to Slughorn's awful Christmas party. She shuddered at the memory of Cormac McLaggen. Not one of her best ideas. 

It feels a little self-indulgent and silly to be doing something like this now, when Harry was locked up at the Dursleys, when muggle-borns were going into hiding, when Snape and Voldemort and the rest of the Death Eaters were still at large. 

_ It’s not a date _ , she tells herself again. 

So why does it feel like one?

Ron exits the closet, fully dressed, save a few buttons at the top of his shirt. “Oh, Ron,” Hermione says, going over to stop him. “You’re supposed to wear a shirt underneath it.” 

“I am?” He stops, indignant. “What’s the point in wearing two shirts? It’s the middle of summer!”

Hermione raises her eyebrows at him. He groans and sulks back into the closet. 

“Just do it in here,” she finds herself saying. “It won’t kill us.” 

When he turns around, she’s much closer than she remembers being. And his chest is staring her in the face, his fingers slowing going down the row of buttons. Then he’s slipping out of the sleeves and suddenly Ron Weasley is shirtless in her bedroom. 

Or maybe it will kill her. She’ll drop dead from the shock of it all, right here, right now. 

She looks down initially, but then her eyes catch on ginger hair crawling up from his waistband and her breath catches.  _ His arms _ , she thinks,  _ look at his arms, _ but those are muscular and strong from Quidditch, freckles traveling from wrist to shoulder. And underneath those freckles is a line of swirling scars she’s never seen before. 

The gasp is out before she can stop it. “Ron! Are those from the—”  
“Brains,” he confirms. “Madame Pomfrey did her best.” He traces one of the tentacle-like spirals and her fingers land next to his, delicate and shaky. 

They’ve never been this close, like  _ this _ . Hermione wants to stay here forever, brushing her fingertips against his, ignoring what she has to do in only a few days. 

“I wish…” she gets out before a clatter of plates downstairs interrupts them again. Ron mumbles something incoherent and steps around her to find a plain white shirt he can wear underneath. Their fragile peace is broken, Hermione reluctant to pick up the pieces again. 

But she has to. She has to know… 

“Do you think I’m doing the right thing?” The whispered insecurity falls freely from her lips, escaping the careful lock and key of her mind. 

She doesn’t face him, instead staring into the darkness of her closet. She used to hide in there when she was little. On days when her oddities were too odd, when the other kids called her a freak, a weirdo, and every other insult they could think of. And when the fantasies in her books came to life before her, mirages of color and wonder, she thought she deserved them. She  _ was  _ a freak. So she stopped reading fiction altogether, sticking to basic fact, diving into histories and sciences that didn’t leap from the pages of her book. 

“I don’t know.” 

The honest answer nearly sends her to tears; she hates not knowing right from wrong. She hates not knowing anything. 

“Whatever you need,” Ron says. “I’ll be there.” 

It’s not the comfort she hoped for, but it’s a comfort all the same. 

“You should get dressed. Got a date to get to.” 

Hermione doesn’t let him see the grin on her face as she goes to change. 

* * * * * * *

When she comes back, donned in a yellow—not orange—sundress, her room is empty. Ron probably figured out her parents would be a little confused if he arrived by way of the stairs, and as expected, when seven o’clock hits, there’s a knock on the front door. 

“He’s here! Oh—” Her mum comes running out of the kitchen, oven mitts still on and Hermione’s reminded why this in no way qualifies as a date. Her dad, though he tried to remain aloof and disinterested all day, stands quickly from his chair and meets them at the door. 

Hermione opens it to Ron, crushed daisies in hand. “Hello, Hermione, Mrs. Granger, Mr. Granger.” He steps inside and there’s a great flurry of awkward hugs and handshakes. 

“Thank you for having me over,” Ron says, and then hands the flowers to Hermione. “Here.” 

The stems are all crooked from his big hands and she’s half certain he picked them from the Burrow’s garden in the twenty minutes they spent apart, but—Ron brought her flowers. He’s being mannerly. And—

“You look lovely, by the way.” 

And that’s the second time he’s complimented her in the last hour. 

“Thank you, Ron.” 

Her parents are watching them, her mum wearing a far too romantic expression on her face. Hermione clears her throat. “Is dinner ready, mum?” 

The oven beeps in response. “Just a minute, dear. Come help me in the kitchen.” 

Too late, she realizes that leaves Ron with her father. “Watch any football, lad?” he asks, patting Ron on the back. As they move into the living room, Ron gives her a backward glance of absolute panic. Football was close enough to Quidditch, right? Hermione didn’t pay much attention to either, except when Ron was playing and then he was just stopping things from getting in the hoops. 

Her mum is pulling out the potatoes when Hermione joins her. “He’s so tall!” she exclaims. “And a gentleman!” 

Hermione thinks of the amount of times she’s watched Ron eat and decides not to comment. 

“And handsome,” her mother adds cheekily, finding a vase for the flowers.

Her cheeks warm. “Yes, well…” She’s not sure what to say. Thankfully, everything’s ready and she can busy herself by moving dishes to the table. 

Her dad joins them, sitting across from Hermione while Ron takes the seat at her side. 

They fall easily into a conversation about Ron’s giant family, how school went this year—Ron skips everything from November to March, Hermione notices—and anything from doorbells to house-elves. 

Ron manages to eat like a normal person for the first time in his life. The food is good, normal, her dad isn’t stand-offish, her mum doesn’t fuss over every little thing.

And Hermione forgets. 

She forgets why they’re doing this, she forgets that their answers won’t matter in two days, she forgets that her parents might never meet Ron Weasley again. 

Those realities return however, as soon as the conversation turns to their upcoming school year and life beyond Hogwarts—a life they may never experience. Hermione’s been fielding these questions since she came home so she should be able to answer them, but suddenly everything feels too much like pretending. How can she sit here and imagine everything’s going to be alright, when it won’t be? How can she do this to her own parents?

The room’s fading in and out and she can only catch the first half of her mum’s questions. She thinks she’ll be alright as long as nobody notices, but he does. 

Ron does, and without slowing his words, he finds her hand underneath the table and squeezes gently. It’s the smallest of gestures but it does the trick. 

When he gets a chance, he glances at her and asks with his eyes if she’s alright. Hermione nods, grateful. 

The rest of the night goes off without a hitch. Ron makes jokes and tells stories, and Hermione’s suddenly very glad for her parents to meet him properly. This is the Ron Weasley she knows best and they deserve to know him too, if only for a few days. 

After her dad’s explained the basics of football to Ron, who’s doing his best, but very obviously confused, they say their good-byes in the living room. 

“I’ll walk you to the door,” Hermione says, ignoring her mother’s knowing look. 

Back in the front hall, they’re alone again. Hermione wants him to hold her hand like he does when she’s upset. She wants him to hold her hand no matter what she’s feeling. 

“That went alright, don’t you think?”

“I have no idea how football works,” Ron confesses, looking seriously worried. 

Hermione giggles. “You did well enough.” 

Ron goes in for a hug at the same time Hermione tries to kiss his cheek. They get there eventually, an awkward embrace that Harry would’ve loved to interrupt. 

“I’ll see you in a few days,” Ron whispers as she opens the door. “And if you need anything—anything at all—”

“I know where to find you,” Hermione says, leaning against the frame as he steps outside. “I’m a witch, remember?”

He looks like he wants to say something snarky but settles instead for that sideways grin of his, the one that never fails to give her butterflies. “See you, Hermione.”

Then he turns on the spot and disappears into the night. 

_ It was sort of a date _ , she decides.  _ A really amazing, heart-stopping, lovely sort-of-date.  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like to think Hermione's accidental magic had something to do with books, and maybe it was a Matilda sort of deal, maybe it was her imagination getting the better of her. Who knows!
> 
> Kudos and comments are always appreciated :) Up next: The Obliviation Complication


End file.
